


Boredom vs. Drunk

by Smushed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bored!Sherlock, Cuddles, Feels, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Kisses, M/M, drunk, drunk!John, unexpected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smushed/pseuds/Smushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock turned onto his back to witness his drunken friend. His hair was askew, face blushed with the alcohol thinning his blood and making the capillaries raise to the skin, fingers much slower at unzipping his coat and he didn't hang it up but instead let it fall to the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boredom vs. Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> I might continue this but I'm unsure, I like fluff but I always worry I'm boring. (Haha!) Please enjoy this! Feel free to comment, I enjoy constructive criticism and appreciation always. Thanks so much.

Sherlock was yelling, the constant stream of sound went on for a long time, only silenced when he took in a deep breath to continue the sound.

"Sherlock! For _God’s_ sake." John snapped as he strolled into the sitting room and past the groaning figure, who sat melodramatically with the back of his hand against his forehead. His dressing gown scrunched up his back and hung over the couch.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?!" John shouted impatiently over the hum.

Sherlock’s legs flapped on the couch. “Seeing how long it will take me to get a headache. I’d rather focus on that pain than this boredom.” He interrupted his yell to reply and then continued, and John felt it his place to stomp towards the couch. Hovering above Sherlock his lower lip pouted in irritation.

"Sherlock! Will you stop!" John had already been pushed to his limits this week from finding beetles in the teapot and being woken up in the middle of the night from the violin (which John was convinced was being played right outside of his door).

"But I’m _bored_ John!" Sherlock’s incessant drone had ended and as his eyes opened he could see John hovering over him sighing with relief. "What good is having a housemate if I’m just as bored with one as I was when I was on my own?" He added, blank faced, curled lower lip. Although John was used to the inconsiderate comments, the tantrums, he had seriously enough for this week.

"Mm. Right." John’s lips spread into a thin line as he looked down at the carpet and pat the couch twice with his hand. "Well, good luck with that." Sherlock didn’t move but he could hear John grab his coat and leave the flat. His social ineptness would have rendered him clueless but he knows John a little more than the rest of society, he had guessed he’d hurt him. Rather than feeling guilty or even consider being apologetic he turned to face the back of the couch, moved his knees up into his chest and started to count the weaves of cotton in the material of the sofa per square inch.

John had been gone a good three and a half hours, he came in at nine in the evening, from the smell of beer (and musk) Sherlock deduced without moving that John had drank his irritations away. Confirmed by the stumble up the last step at the top of the stairs. “Oh, Sherlock…” He groaned as he seen the detective still on the couch in the same clothes. “For God’s sake…” He murmured under his breath.

Sherlock turned onto his back to witness his drunken friend. His hair was askew, face blushed with the alcohol thinning his blood and making the capillaries raise to the skin, fingers much slower at unzipping his coat and he didn’t hang it up but instead let it fall to the floor. He frowned but it seemed almost wonky from the alcohol as he collapsed onto his usual chair, sitting on the newspaper he read earlier that morning. His elbow rested on the arm of the chair and his fingers splayed across his face letting his head rest on it. Watson’s breathing was much louder, Sherlock noticed that happened a lot with people who were drunk, their breathing became a conscious thing to focus on to try and help sober them.

"Y’know Sherlock," He began, slurred words rolled into something barely recognisable, Sherlock was fully alert trying to figure out what John was going to say before he said it. He had guessed that it would be to do with his inconsiderate yelling, judging because John threw himself into a pub to de-stress. John’s lips mimed something against his little finger, Sherlock sat up to see but the position was too obscure, it burned the detective to know what those words were. "Y’hurt m’feelin’s before." His other hand that was resting in between his legs and raised to gesture outwards as though the memory was an object to point at. " ‘thought i’wasa- good housemate." He finished, exhaling loudly before he started to laugh against his hand, his body then curled forward and he cupped his face with both hands as though he were trying to keep the laugh for later, as he stopped he sighed deeply. " ‘m such ef’in idiot" he babbled, Sherlock’s face was stiff with concern, it always revealed itself in his features when it was anything to do with John.

"John." Sherlock’s voice was so deep, it made John move his head from his hands. "Are you alright?" He asked, genuine concern etched on to his face.

"Y’know Sherl- lock." He hiccoughed, struggling to carry his weight on the arms of the sofa. "a’turned down a… a really…" He stood on his feet and rubbed his face "a’fuckin really gorgeous w’man t’night." He sighed, stepping forward once but then backwards again to steady himself. "Sh’had red lipstick." He made an ‘o’ shape with his lips in appreciation at the memory of the woman at the pub. She seemed to be in the same predicament as John, escaping something from home and wanted a distraction. "Sh’act’lly, really, fancied me." He laughed, grimacing as though he questioned how anybody could fancy him. He stumbled towards Sherlock and steadied himself as he went. Sherlock, for once, lost track of where this would lead. John was standing over Sherlock now, a step away, his fingers clenched and stretched. "Know why a’turned ‘er down?" John asked, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe the answer himself. John started to laugh again, this time a genuine laugh, he took one step forward, his shin had reached the couch but his other knee made John kneel beside Sherlock, his other knee (with effort) followed suit, managing to allow John to sit on Sherlock’s thighs. His flushed face looking down with shame at his stomach as his laughter simmered away completely, the courage that had thrust John into Sherlock had now turned to doubt.

Sherlock shuffled back into the couch as much as he could, John on his lap, he looked away, left then right. He didn’t know what to do. John leaned, his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder as he shuffled into him further so their chests were touching. The room was silent, only filled with John’s heavy breathing before he said. “a’said no t’the w’man… cause a’really like… you” he breathed the last word and let his shoulders sag. Sherlock’s heart froze, his hands that were placed on the couch moved up, he hesitated but then realised his John was not happy. He needed someone. And apparently that was him. The slender hands patted the doctors back awkwardly, John’s lips then pressed to Sherlock’s neck and the detective's insides fluttered in an intense wave that made him shuffle.

"John," Sherlock rasped, a stiff upper lip, "What’s wrong?" He managed to ask after a hesitation. His hands still awkward on that muscular back, but patting gently. John shuffled again, pressing himself even harder against his friend. Their bodies were tight against each other, John’s lips parted and Sherlock closed his eyes at the sensation of the soft skin against his neck. "I... love you, Sherlock. Are you stupid?" John took great care with his drunk mouth at forming the words, and as the doctor sniffed, Sherlock felt a warm tear join those soft lips at the crook of his neck.

Sherlock’s entire being denied the whole situation, but then John shuddered in a slight cry before Sherlock heard the familiar sound of him clearing his throat. The stubborn, rigid Sherlock Holmes became a soft soul in this moment, his hands curled to the back of John's shoulders and pressed him against his body. “Oh, John.” He attempted to scold, but it sounded too soft.

"Sorry. Sorry…" John pulled his face from Sherlock’s neck but still wouldn’t show it, he buried his face in his arm instead, wiping whatever liquid his eyes left by nuzzling his face into the joint of his elbow. Sherlock forced the elbow aside and their eyes connected. Grey-turquoise bore into the glistening dark silver iris of his friend’s, "John." Sherlock repeated, nodding his head a little and allowing his hand to cup the distraught face. "It’s okay." He assured, a slight smile quirked Sherlock’s lip before he gripped John tight. The doctor pressed against Sherlock, who shuffled so that he was lying on his back and John was on top, still bestride his hips. And they stayed there, the external world didn’t matter as the detective's fingers stroked through John’s fair hair and as he did whispered into John’s ear "I’m sorry." John squeezed Sherlock tighter, and there they stayed until Sherlock felt the drunk breath of his friend level into a sleeping state. When he was sure John was sleeping, he murmured. "I love you too."


End file.
